


Trust Starts Somewhere

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Series: Never to Rule [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mira Trevelyan, heir of Ostwick and a bandit of the mercenary Band of Fools, stumbles head-first into a heated argument between the Inquisitor and her Commander, and becomes privy to sensitive Inquisition intelligence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Starts Somewhere

_Ugh, Templars_ , Elyse had said, only half joking, as she sent Mira off to speak to the Commander about their next mission. Andraste fucking wept, Mira was really going to have to stop showing up in places uninvited.

As soon as she opened the door, there was a crash of glass and wood near her head, and she flinched back, eyes going wide as the instant, irrational fear stabbed right down her spine and made her knees lock. Something icy cool and minty sweet spattered, and she reached up with a trembling hand to wipe at a sticky blue substance on her cheek.  

“Shut the fucking door!” barked a harsh voice, making Mira jerk again in reaction. 

She stared in wide-eyed incomprehension at the fierce face of the Inquisitor. The Commander of the Inquisition was slumped over his desk, one gloved hand braced on the surface, the other pressed hard over his face. Mira hesitated, hovering, until the Inquisitor growled at her again. 

“Are you daft? Get in or get out, but for the Maker’s sake close the damned door!”

Mira swallowed hard, embarrassed, and forced down her knee-jerk reactions. She came through the door, shutting it tight behind her. “Apologies. Are you alright?” She couldn’t say what made her ask–-they were standing far apart, and the Inquisitor was clearly unharmed, but the atmosphere in the office was charged with pain.

The Commander groaned, his head drooping. “Thea-–”

Mira wished intensely that she had left when she had the option. The Inquisitor approached the desk, rested her hands against the scarred wood. 

“I told you to get rid of the damned kit months ago, you stubborn son of a bitch.” The Inquisitor’s voice was softer, tender under that Marcher twang–-and a hint of what Mira thought might be Starkhaven. That would explain the Ainsleigh name, she thought to herself, idly, looking around the office and wondering if she should leave even though it required opening the door again. 

“It can’t be easy for all of us.” There was resentment buried in that achingly raw tenor. It made Mira wince in sympathy.

The Inquisitor pushed back from the desk, crossed her arms over her chest, cocked her head. “And leaving temptation in your desk drawer makes it easier? You know better than that, Cullen. Even a drunkard knows when to stop keeping the rotgut in the cupboard.”

Mira frowned slightly, rubbed her fingertips together, feeling the gritty stickiness. Oh. Andraste wept. Well that sure as the Void explained why the Commander and Inquisitor both spent so much time with bags under their eyes. It occurred to Mira that this knowledge was both dangerous and volatile, and she regretted her presence even more. The door was starting to look like a great option again.

Her hand was curled around the door handle when the Inquisitor said, without turned her head, “If you open that door again, I will have you in the Fallow Mire for a month. Don’t test me, girl.”

Mira’s eyes sparked, her lips twisting in a scowl. Girl? She breathed heavily through her nose, swallowed the first two responses that came to her tongue, and finally said, as mildly as she could manage: “I really shouldn’t be here.”

There was a muffled comment from the Commander–-Mira strongly suspected it was agreement. The Inquisitor barked a laugh. “You got ahold of your temper again?”

There was grudging silence from the Commander, and then a muffled, “Perhaps. Thea, I might-–” His voice was full of discomfort. 

“I know, _mo cridhe_.” The Inquisitor turned her head, fixed Mira with a sharp look. “Get to the top of that damned ladder and help me get him up.”

Mira looked dubiously at the Commander’s solid, armored bulk and then the ladder to the rickety loft. But the Inquisitor was already hauling the Commander’s arm around her shoulders and making her way to the loft, so Mira went up without commenting out loud. 

It was a struggle, and the Commander’s hands were trembling and clammy, his face pale and ghastly, when between the two of them, they managed to haul him into the loft. His booted foot caught on the lip of the entry, and he stumbled heavily into Mira, sending them both crashing to the hard plank floor. He made a choked, gagging sound of pain, one hand clenching bruisingly around Mira’s upper arm, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around him despite the fact that he was crushing her with his weight. 

Her eyes were wide and startled as she gazed down at the vulnerable nape of the man’s neck, where his curls were damp with sweat. There was a scuffle and the Inquisitor went to her knee beside them, setting a hand on the Commander’s neck, stroking, before she hauled him up with gentle encouraging noises. Mira flushed with embarrassment and struggled to her feet, anchoring herself under the man’s other arm to help them to the bed. 

Mira backed away uncertainly again when he moaned, and watched as the Inquisitor bent him over the chamber pot with another soothing murmur. She turned away quickly while he was noisily ill, feeling like an interloper. There was a washbasin near the window, and an ewer. Trying to keep her heavy footsteps quiet and unintrusive, she went to check the ewer, poured some of the tepid water into a chipped mug that at least *looked* to be clean, and wet a ragged cloth. 

The Commander had his head in his hands when Mira returned to their side, offering the mug and cloth to the Inquisitor silently. The Inquisitor’s eyes were dark and strained, but she gave Mira a thankful nod. 

She watched the Commander’s shoulders tense, his fingers threading back through his hair as the Inquisitor set the damp cloth on the back of his neck and offered him the mug. 

“Rinse your mouth and I’ll see about getting this armor off of you so you can rest.”

There was a splash and a crack and clatter as the mug went rolling across the floor. _I suppose that’s how it got chipped_ , Mira thought a little hazily. The Inquisitor had the Commander’s wrist firmly in her grasp, stopping him before he could do any more damage than spill a little water and break some crockery. Mira bit her lip hard and went to retrieve the mug. She had helped Elyse with her healing before, with providing succor to the wounded and ill-–this was just like that. It didn’t matter that these were two of the most powerful people in the Inquisition, and she had absolutely no place being here.

* * *

“*Rest*,” Cullen snarled. “Maker, if I could fucking sleep I wouldn’t *be* in this mess.” He tugged his hand free from Thea’s grasp, feeling a stab of guilt under the buzzing ache in his head. He should have better control of himself. She let him go without protest or censure, and he felt her lips brush his neck fleetingly. His skin ached, his teeth ached. He was just one exposed nerve from head to toe, and he couldn’t control himself. Maker, what a mistake the Hero of Ferelden had made, freeing him from that Circle.

Even sunk in agony and nausea, his mind flinched from the bleakness of that thought. No. He didn’t mean that. He could control himself. 

There was a soft step in front of him. He swiped at his mouth with the fingers of his glove as he lifted his head, feeling like a fool suddenly for spilling the water. His mouth tasted foul. 

Maker, the Trevelyan heir was still here. Her long pale fingers were curled around the mug–-not shattered, for a miracle–-and her face turned up toward his. Her eyes were gold like coins. It was hard to get a sense of the shape of her face because of the dark tattoos–-she had broad cheekbones, like Thea. A little bit of similar shape around the eyes. That was all the Trevelyan heritage they seemed to share.

Her gaze became more intent the longer he stared, and he flushed, feeling the heat war with the clamminess of his flesh. Maker, he felt disgusting. Thea’s fingers were rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscles of his neck, and his mind kept hazing out around the edges. 

The Trevelyan girl dropped her gaze, her expression going blank. His eyes tracked her a little dizzily as she stood and went back to the ewer for more water. This time she offered the mug to him herself. Her jaw was firmed–-that was a little like Thea too. There must be mule blood in the Trevelyan line.

* * *

Thea felt the tension slowly draining out of Cullen’s neck and shoulders as he rinsed his mouth and drank a bit of the water. It was a relief. The mood swings were unpredictable, as she knew from personal experience, and could last for days at the worst of times–-springing back up from nowhere. He would probably be exhausted and achy for hours, even if he slept. 

Not for the first time, Thea wished there was a healer she dared trust with their weakness. Her own bouts were more infrequent-–she had never felt the lyrium hunger gnawing at her for moremoremore the way some Templars did, not like the ones who ended up on the streets for filching extra rations from the storerooms or making bad deals for dust on the streets. It had always been a song beneath her faith. But Cullen-–Maker. She hadn’t understood it at first, the way he craved it, the way the hunger burned in him–-not until she realized how the Order had treated him after Kinloch. Lyrium was a tool, a leash, a supplement--her lips twisted at the thought-–to the powers of a Templar. Not a medicine. But they had used it as such, when he came back to them broken and afraid, keeping him drugged and complacent and quiet. 

It was no wonder the nightmares had come back with a vengeance when they made the decision together to break cleanly with the Order. Thea blamed herself a bit for that–-wondered sometimes if she hadn’t forced the decision on him. And sometimes she knew he blamed her for how much easier it was on her. She could wish he weren’t so damned stubborn, constantly trying to prove his own strength by creating impossible temptations, as though their mutual suffering were some kind of tournament he could win. 

She’d burn every Templar kit in the whole of Skyhold if she had to, to keep him doing that to himself again, now that the sickly little wooden box was in splinters. 

Her head came up at a sound by the ladder. Mira was crouched, one leg extended and reaching for a lower rung. The younger woman’s gold eyes flickered from Cullen’s drooping head, and up to meet her gaze cautiously. 

The woman’s voice was soft, careful. “The Fools have a healer. She has treated many things.” Mira let a significant pause settle. “I trust her with my life. I won’t say what you should be doing, but–-there are things that can help.”

Thea tilted her head, considering. There was nothing much to tie them together–-her own connection to House Trevelyan was on the other side of a blanket, and she had been raised in Starkhaven, far from the Ostwick seat of their power. The current Bann was a neglectful, paranoid son of a bitch by all the accounts she had heard, but there had been parts of the family deeply involved in the Chantry, and surely others who were not adulterous or careless of their lovers. 

Well, she had started this by giving the woman the option of staying. 

She inclined her head, keeping her expression cool. “The details don’t go outside this tower. But I’ll see what you’ve got.”

The younger woman’s face tightened at the implication that she would mouth off about something so sensitive. Thea raised her brows, waiting for protests or argument. Mira just pressed her curvy lips in a thin line and nodded curtly, easing herself down the ladder.

Before her head disappeared, Thea added a last instruction, extended just the tiniest bit of trust. “And find the Seeker. Tell her no more meetings today. She’ll understand.”

Mira paused, her golden eyes serious, and offered a little salute. She was nearly silent as she made her way down the ladder and out of the tower. 

Humming tonelessly, Thea turned her attention to wrangling a very ill and tired man out of a few stone worth of plate armor by herself.


End file.
